


A Flame Against the Dark

by Fiorenza_a



Series: Anthology [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 14:08:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16536044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiorenza_a/pseuds/Fiorenza_a
Summary: Thick white walls reflecting the blazing sunlight, the windmill's spindly arms stuck out like regimented twigs.





	A Flame Against the Dark

  


Illya pulled his sunglasses from his nose, squinting against the unforgiving brightness, dragging his shirtsleeve across his face, wiping away the greasy perspiration.

The thick white walls of the windmill rising above him reflected the blazing sunlight, its spindly arms sticking out like regimented twigs.  

Illya tugged gingerly at his shirt, it was stuck to the drying blood, threatening to re-open his wound.

Dehydrated from the loss of blood, and the grinding slog through claustrophobic, toothpaste brilliant streets to reach this abandoned place of sanctuary, his head was throbbing. The unrelenting dazzle of golden light hurt his eyes, already beginning to burn from the salt of his own sweat.

Disorientated, dizzy and nauseous, he stumbled forward, staggering through the windmill’s open doorway and collapsing on the fine sand covering the floor. His sunglasses flew from his fingertips to land a few feet away. Pushing up on his forearms, Illya dragged himself forward to retrieve them, then onwards, until he could prop himself against the continuous curve of the encircling wall. He’d left a wide sinuous trail in the pale sand, as his eyes adjusted to the softer, kinder light, he realised that his was not the only passage the sand had recorded.

There was another sinuous path, rope thin and exhibiting more artistry than his own, decorated with a delicate papery husk, every scale engraved with exquisite detail.            

Illya let his head fall back against the comparative coolness of the curved wall, and fumbled for his communicator in the depths of his trouser pocket, though he had become clumsy, dropping the communicator twice before he succeeded in raising it to his parched lips and gasping ‘’Open channel D.’’

The answering empty static sapped the last of his will, and he let his arm drop to his side, the communicator still gripped in his fingers. He closed his eyes and allowed the darkness rising within to engulf him.

As Illya lay insensible, the airless hours passed. The birds began to squabble in their roosts, the scant shadows lengthened. The heat ebbed from the day, leaving behind its signature scents of thyme and rosemary.

A lizard skittered through the doorway, head darting in rapid, disjointed movements, assessing the scene before it. Then it made a sudden dash across the floor, running up Illya’s immobile legs to perch amongst the crumpled folds of his shirt. Its sudden arrival disturbing three large black flies, crawling over the sluggish ooze of crusting blood, which marred the once pristine fabric.

The scattered flies hovered and returned, more nervous than before, touching down, then instantly airborne again. The lizard watched and waited. Abruptly, it pounced. Snatching a fly from the air and gulping it down. Its companions immediately took flight. The lizard hesitated only momentarily before making good its own escape.        

Alone, time seemed to slow to the rhythm of Illya’s breathing, softly in and out.

Another visitor slithered its way into the windmill’s barren interior. It crossed the sinuous rope trail of its previous passing with easy familiarity, callously brushing aside its own discarded casing, and coiling neatly at the base of the wall to regard Illya with quick, incurious eyes.

Except for the reptile’s flickering tongue, and the gentle rise and fall of Illya’s chest, the two remained motionless as the sun exchanged places with the moon.

Eventually, Illya stirred, groggily opening his eyes and waiting listlessly for the all encompassing gloom to resolve itself into a recognisable world.

Aided by his fleeting daylight memory of the place, the shadow-layered-upon-shadow gradually began to take nebulous form. A doorway, an endless circling wall, the pale, sandy floor. Remembering his last action, Illya closed his fingers. The communicator had slipped from his unconscious grasp. Illya patted the sand around him, but to no avail. Slipping his hands into his trouser pockets, he retrieved a lighter, flicking the small steady flame into life.

The snake recoiled, scales winding silently against one another as if oiled, but the serpentine movement was enough to draw Illya’s eye.

‘’Hello, my friend’’ Illya greeted the snake.    

The snake stared back with unfathomable, boot button eyes.

‘’I’m afraid I am a poor host’’ Illya rambled ‘’I have nothing to offer you, and I must crave your indulgence for my appearance, it has been a somewhat trying day.’’

The snake’s imperious gaze didn’t waver.

‘’Quite right’’ conceded Illya ‘’There’s no excuse for discourtesy, but I fear I have exhausted my resources. What you see before you is all that I have.’’

The snake relaxed, tense coils unwinding with fluid grace, until its head sank down upon them and it seemed to settle.

‘’I should not trouble yourself to bite me’’ advised Illya conversationally ‘’I shall be dead by morning. You may have what’s left of me then, with my blessing.‘’

The snake gave no sign of appreciating Illya’s largesse.  

Illya grunted in discomfort as he attempted to move without snuffing out the lighter.

‘’It strikes me, I should have a candle’’ Illya informed the snake ‘’Unfortunately’’ he continued, panting against the pain of his exertions ‘’U.N.C.L.E.’s portable arsenal is surprisingly remiss in such matters. However, I have an idea which might suffice.’’

The snake dozed disinterestedly.

Illya succeeded in sloughing off his shirt. His wound seeped continuously and he was sheened in perspiration, it mixed with his blood in a stinging mockery of antiseptic healing. Illya leaned back against the wall, breathless from exertion, and tore at the fabric with his teeth and free hand, until he had a strip he could light. He wiped the shirt strip against his skin, hoping the greasy sweat would act as tallow, and set light to his makeshift candle.

It burned more slowly than it might have done starched and fresh, but the delinquent flame soon sputtered out, barely affording Illya any respite from the task of keeping the lighter alight.

‘’Don’t be disheartened, my friend’’ Illya reassured the snake ‘’I have a plan B.’’      

If it had been troubled, the snake gave no appearance of it.

Extinguishing the lighter, Illya fumbled in the gloom to take it apart. Working as swiftly as his injuries would allow, he managed to access the fuel reservoir. He pulled the soused wick wadding from the interior, picking at it like oakum, shredding it, and sprinkling the remaining shirt material with precious lighter fluid, praying to the opium peddling God of the masses that his befuddled brain had calculated correctly. He span the wheel against the flint and succeeded in generating sufficient sparks to ignite a piece of wadding. The tiny conflagration spread to the rest of the shirt, dotted with the residue of the wadding. Exhausted, Illya slumped back against the wall.

At once revealed and deterred by the ancient terror of firelight, the snake halted its clandestine advance, regarding Illya with haughty disdain, before slithering back to its resting place.

‘’Patience, my friend’’ Illya counselled the disappointed snake ‘’I will be yours tomorrow.’’  

Suddenly aware of a sharp pain, Illya reached behind him, thinking to dislodge an errant pebble. Instead, his fingers encountered an incendiary heat, the casing of his communicator, conducting the ephemeral energy of the flames. He arched away from the searing metal, grunting against the older, more familiar pain, and withdrew his fingers to insulate them with the last of his saliva. Again, he reached behind him, retrieving his communicator and placing it beside him to cool in the lee of his thigh.

’’Please excuse me, I mean no disrespect, but it is one’s duty to try’’ Illya addressed the snake apologetically, before bringing the communicator to his lips and commanding ‘’Open channel D.’’

**…**

Below the encircling walls of the silent windmill, below Illya’s desperate plight, below the ever watchful snake, where the steep white streets met the harbour, and the night rolled in over the sea, turning the sparkling waves to inky blackness, the oblivious tavernas were still serving dinner to their guests. Jostling boats with painted eyes bobbed against the harbour wall, and the old fishermen sat with their friends, remembering yesterday through rose tinted glasses fogged with ouzo.

Napoleon Solo sat alone on his bed, strong black coffee on his bedside table, the lonely twin of his utilitarian bunk, untouched and reproachful.

Napoleon ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

‘’Illya’’ he breathed aloud ‘’Where the hell are you? Why can you never stay put, when you’re told to stay put.’’

Then he heaved an exhausted, dispirited sigh and picked up his communicator ‘’Open channel D.’’

**…**

In the peaceful stillness of the windmill, the snake watched as the flames consumed themselves.

Illya shut his eyes against the pain, the blood, the dying of the light, and offered up the only prayer of which he was certain _‘’Napoleon…’’_

The snake unwound its coils, tongue flicking busily, and began its advance.  

**…**

In the seclusion of his room, away from the stygian waters lapping against the harbour, Napoleon finished his coffee. It was bitter and stone cold.

  


  


End

  


  


**Author's Note:**

>   
>  [Oakum](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oakum)


End file.
